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Ci)Efl?IGHT DEPOSm 



Tim Talks 



Copyright, 1919, by Tim Thrift 



Tim Talks 



By 

Tim-^ Thrift 

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Roger Williams Press 

Cleveland 



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FRIEND READER: 

FRANKLY, the stones, sketches, essays — call 
them what you will — that make up this little 
volume were written for the folks who are mem- 
bers of the business family to which I belong. 
And because they were written by one of the 
family, I presume, they were kind enough to say 
there was something of good in them and urged 
that others be given the opportunity to read — 
and perchance enjoy — them. 

Originally published as a column feature of a 
weekly, under the heading of "Tim Talks,*' as 
Tim Talks they are presented to you. I hope 
you find pleasure and profit in them. They're 
not clever or brilliant — just homely little skits 
that may appeal to your heart, as they have 
appealed to the hearts of the fine big family to 
which I here dedicate them. 

— Tim Thrift 
Cleveland 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Forgotten Child - ii 

Cause — and Effect - 15 

That Something _>______ 18 

The Never-Lighted Fire - - - - - - - -21 

The Circus _--.---__ 24 

They Say: ----------27 

Make-Believe -.--_-._- 29 

If I Knew You and You Knew Me - - - - - -31 

A June Night ------___ ^3 

The Talent - - - - - - - - - "35 

P. P. 38 

Imagination - - - - - - - - - "41 

My Friend _________ ^^ 

The Kill-Joy _ _ _ 45 

The Clock Watcher ________ 47 

Objectives ___--____. 50 

The Vacant Chair ________ ^^ 

Green Pastures - - - - - - - - "55 

A Memorial Day Epic _______ ^7 

**Dictated But Not Read" - - 61 

What Is Success? ________ 63 

Changing Gears _________ 66 

The Back-Door-Man ________ 69 

A Pipe __72 

The Old Swimming Hole - -- - - - - 75 

The Broken Heart - - - - - - - - -78 

The Stopping of the Clock -___-_- 82 

A May Fancy - - - - 85 

Loyalty - - - - - 88 

Writers of Letters - - - - - _ _ _ -91 

Too Late! _________ 94 

The Race of Men To Be _______ 97 




THE FORGOTTEN CHILD 

^HE place where the Forgotten Child lived 
was a place of poverty. One reached it 
through narrow alley-ways, along tortuous 
passages, past noisome courts and areas. 

Squalor was always everywhere; squalor 
and neglect. The buildings were grimy, weather- 
beaten structures crowded one against the other; old 
hags of tenements, filthy, gloomy, foreboding. The 
streets thereabouts — if streets they might be called — 
were roughly paved with blocks of stone, worn into 
hollows with the daily passage of countless slouching 
feet. Little puddles of brackish water, half frozen over, 
lay about and all around were mounds of dirt and 
refuse. 

It was evening — Christmas Eve — and the night gave 
promise of an early snow. The street lights, placed at 
an occasional corner, only intensified the miserable sur- 
roundings and made sharper the contrast with the 
Avenue above. Here, indeed, dwelt the poorest of the 
poor; the problems of the city; the dregs, the flotsam, 
the riffraff of humanity. 

Through these miserable surroundings — her play- 
ground in the summer days — the Forgotten Child 
dragged her weary feet. All the long afternoon she had 
followed the crowds before the big stores many blocks 
away and with pinched face against the cold glass of 
the great windows feasted her eyes on the wonderful 
dreamland of toys. 

Even now as she stumbled along she could close her 
eyes and glimpse that fairyland. Beautiful dollies, 

11 



with eyes that opened and shut and long golden hair; 
little beds where their mammas might put them to sleep; 
wonderful dishes, with pretty flowers painted on them; 
real tables and ever so cunning chairs, hats and dresses, 
and even furs like the rich ladies wore — was there any- 
thing lacking! Oh, it all passed before her in a most 
bewildering array, and with it the sparkle and glitter 
and glimmer of Christmas trees, soft lights and such 
truly make-believe snow. 

Santa Claus, too, she had seen. She had even 
ventured to touch his shaggy fur coat as he passed by 
her on the street. How her heart had thumped as she 
did so. She wondered if he had heard her whispered 
prayer — for a dolly, just a very cheap dolly; one he 
would never miss, surely. 

Of course, she had little hope that he had heard. 
Her mamma had said, only a day ago, that it seemed 
God had forgotten them — so Santa must have forgot- 
ten too. 

So she came to the door of one of the most dis- 
reputable of the tenements, and, picking her way past 
a drunken man huddled on its stoop, mounted the 
narrow, winding flight of stairs that led to **home." 

At the very top she pushed open the door and entered 
a room. An oil lamp feebly revealed its interior. The 
walls were cracked and only a few pieces of battered 
furniture relieved their barrenness. But, withal, the 
place was clean. 

A woman was seated at a table, her hands folded in 
her lap and her body relaxed with a great weariness. 
From early morning she had labored for this *'home" 
and the child, and she was very, very tired. 

12 



To her the Child went, without words. The woman 
stooped and kissed her and pressed her close, with arms 
that had a convulsive tremor in them. Later she 
placed a plate before her — a few scraps of cold meat 
and a piece of bread. There was nothing more in the 
house. 

Her scanty meal finished, the Child slowly un- 
dressed. Her thoughts were long, long thoughts. 
Dimly she understood the burden of life and through 
silence strove to take a share. 

When she was quite ready for bed, she timidly placed 
one stocking across the foot-board — perhaps Santa 
would remember, after all — and then drew the ragged 
coverlid close about her. 

The woman watched her with a pathetic tenderness. 
At this little act of childish faith her eyes grew heavy 
with a weight of unshed tears and she quickly crossed 
the room and kissed the Child's wan cheek. 

Afterwhile — but what matter afterwhiles in the 
homes of Forgotten Children! 

Christmas day dawned bright and clear. Out in the 
city all was cheer and happiness. Little, remembered 
children scampered from their soft, white beds and 
with laugh and shout brought forth the treasures of 
their well-filled stockings. 

But as the morning light streamed into the face of 
the Forgotten Child and she slowly opened her eyes, 
there was no treasure trove to meet their expectancy. 
Only an empty stocking and a cold and barren room. 

13 



In her face there came the pitiful light of a shattered 
faith as she slowly clambered from the bed, and, clasp- 
ing the empty stocking, buried her face in her arms and 
shook with dry, convulsive sobs. 



♦ 



**Suffer little children to come unto me** — faint and 
sweet, the chant of a distant choir! 

The broken heart of a little child! 

And in the city — the thoughtless city — a thousand 
hearts that might have grown tender with sympathy, 
had they but known! But in the room the Forgotten 
Child and an empty stocking! 



14 



CAUSE — AND EFFECT 



ROP a pebble into a placid pool and the 
ripple it causes goes, in an ever-widening 
circle, to its fartherest edge. 



D 

1 ^ ^ Drop a thought into a receptive mind 
and the effect it causes goes, in an ever- 
increasing measure, to its farthest mental horizon. 



Years ago, in our town, for one week during the sum- 
mer, a street faker held forth of an evening in the 
public square. He sold a mysterious concoction which 
he gave the high-sounding name of "Elixir of Life." 
According to the lecture which invariably preceded the 
sale, it would cure all the pains and aches to which man- 
kind and womankind might be heir. 

To attract a crowd within the circle of light cast by 
the flaring gasoline torches on his gaudily painted 
wagon, he would give a talk on phrenology, illustrating 
his points with the aid of a human skull and such small- 
boy subjects as he could induce to aid him. 

I recall one such a night and occasion, when, having 
an evening of leisure on my hands, I joined the village 
folk congregated about his motely equipage. He had 
just reached the point in his phrenological discussion 
where he required a human subject to operate upon. 
He called for volunteers. 

After a moment*s hesitation, a small, unkempt figure 
mounted the steps that led to the wagon bed where he 
stood and stopped beside him. With that good- 
natured ridicule which is a common attribute of small 

15 



town people, the crowd nudged one another and 
laughed hilariously. 

The "subject" who had volunteered was the son of 
Pete, the village drunkard — probably regarded as the 
sorriest specimen of the rising generation in the envir- 
ons of the town. "If he's got any bumps on his 
head," said a voice near me, "the old man put 'em 
there." 

The boy stood blinking in the light of the torches — 
a typical waif of the streets, such as might be a common 
sight in cities, but a vara avis in our parts. He was 
plainly nervous and ill at ease, yet there was a certain 
touch of courage in his daring this publicity that 
caught my fancy. I watched with Hvelier interest. 

Our friend, the phrenologist, knew something of the 
psychology of crowds, for he was quick to take ad- 
vantage of this opportunity to play upon the rough an 
ready humor of his audience. 

His nimble fingers played over the boy's head; he 
turned him this way and that; he tilted his 
chin, then lowered it — the while he kept up a 
running fire of comment and explanation that convulsed 
the bystanders. Here was a rare specimen — mental- 
motive type — a student — an executive — a leader — 
benevolent — courageous — industrious — forceful — 
dominant. So he ran on until he saw that the crowd 
wearied of the jest, when he abruptly dismissed the boy 
and turned enthusiastically to extolling the merits of 
that peerless remedy, "Elixir of Life." 

The villagers watched him, but I watched the boy. 
Why I do not know, but it seemed to me that I caught 

16 



something in his face, a new light in his eyes, an awaken- 
ing of something dormant. He slipped from my 
sight, however, as I looked after him, and the incident 
was forgotten in the press of the weeks that followed. 

All I have narrated occurred years ago. 

This summer I visited again the old town. A street 
faker held forth in the square. So almost identical was 
he with the one of long ago that the incident of the boy 
came back to me. 

I turned to the "old inhabitant" who was with me. 

**By the way,'' I asked, "whatever became of old 
Pete's boy?" 

He laughed. 

"Funny thing — that," he replied. "Ever hear of 
the Hon. Henry Porter Donnellson, who's made such 
a stir up at the capitol as a representative of the state's 
big business interests? Well, that's him." 

The answer? I refer you to the two statements I 
made before I started this story. 



17 



H 



THAT SOMETHING 

E sat in his favorite chair, his sHppered 
feet crossed, an old briar pipe gripped in 
his teeth. The evening paper lay, un- 
read, beside him. He gazed, almost 
without movement, into the darkening 

shadows of the room — gazed fixedly, as one who sees 

visions, as one who dreams dreams. 

But within him was tumult. Not the tumult of 
passion or despair, but the tumult of a mind that can- 
not come to a decision. The tumult of doubt, un- 
certainty, misgivings. It had waged within him for 
hours and still he seemed no nearer the solution. 

That morning the call had come, unexpected, out of 
a clear sky, as such things sometimes come. He had 
been going along the even course of his daily work 
doing the things he had learned to do, and doing them 
well, as he did all things, and then the voice spoke. 

And the voice was the voice of another business — a 
business that had watched him, unbeknown, for a long 
time, and had weighed him in the scale of its standard 
of men. And the voice was a voice that said **I am 
Opportunity" and **I am Advancement*' and "I am 
Financial Success'' and *'I am Your Future." And 
the voice was a voice that had a winning cadence and 
an inflection that stressed things that were pleasant 
to hear and glorious to contemplate. 

So the voice had spoken and the man had listened. 
But his was not an impulsive nature. Reason and logic 
and saneness had ruled his life — had brought him to 
the enviable position of the man who is sought — and 
they continued to guide him. 

18 



Hence through the hours of the day he had turned the 
proposition over in his mind; had weighed it; had in- 
vestigated it; had discovered its weaknesses; had de- 
veloped its stregth; had given it the judicial consider- 
ation that perhaps what might be the most import- 
ant step in his life deserved. 

With it he had compared his present business — all 
that it meant to him, all that it might mean to him in 
the future. He had balanced the two — the old and 
the new — the tried and the untried — the developed 
and the undeveloped. 

And the decision stood, in his fair judgment, as two 
to one in favor of the new. 

But tonight — on the verge of that decision which 
would mean another life and other ways and strange 
activities — his thoughts were in a turmoil. He 
found himself again piecing together, with logic and 
reason, those deductions, that analysis, his conclusions. 

Then, suddenly, THAT SOMETHING shot across 
his chaotic mind like a flaming meteor. Instantly he 
was sobered. Gone the glint of the gold and the rosy 
glow of the new prospect. Gone the lure of the call 
and the seduction of the voice that phrased it glowingly. 
Gone every consideration — minute and immense — 
save THAT SOMETHING. 

An hour longer he gazed into the shadows — now the 
shadows of night — as one who sees visions, as one who 
dreams dreams — then with a half-whimsical smile on 
his face — a face that was calm with decision — he 
picked up the paper beside him and turned to the news 
of the day. 

19 



On the morrow he answered the voice — and the 
answer was "No."' 

THAT SOMETHING! 

If you do not know what it is, my friend, Vm afraid 
I never can tell you, for THAT SOMETHING is of the 
spirit and not of the flesh and it can come only to those 
who understand it. If you understand what it is, then 
you know. If you do not understand, you never can 
understand. 

Kismet — perhaps — but truth. 



20 




THE NEVER-LIGHTED FIRE 

E had made his pile. Only a few hours 
before he had closed with the syndicate 
he had been negotiating with for months, 
and now he could loaf — and play — the 
rest of his life. 

As he sat in his suite at the Giltmore, cigar in mouth, 
relaxed after the strain of the preceding months, he 
felt like pinching himself — it was all so like a dream. 

The past years unrolled before him. As far back as 
his mind reached he could not remember when he hadn't 
worked. He had had no boyhood — no youth — no 
young manhood. It seemed all those things in life 
other men had had were denied him. Always he had 
labored — early and late — until he had made his 
strike — until those few months agone when he had 
wrung from the fickle Goddess of Fortune a belated 
golden smile. 

He was alone in the world. Starting life as an or- 
phan, he was an orphan still, for never in the passing 
years had he felt he dared assume the burden and re- 
sponsibility of a family. And now, at the threshold 
of the two score years and ten that Time had chalked 
against the tally of his life, he was at last independent, 
free to do as he willed, master of his future. 

Life had left him few illusions. He had seen too 
much of the sham beneath the veneer. He had tasted 
the dregs in the cup. The barb of adversity had entered 
his soul. He sat there — amid luxury long-denied — 
with the opened eyes of fifty — and yet he dared to 
dream! 

21 



Money wasn't everything — that he knew. But he 
knew, too, that in a sense it was power. And he 
believed sufficiently in it, and in himself, to dream that 
it would buy the one thing his lonely heart had hungered 
for through all the years — the play-days of youth — 
those careless, happy, idling days that had been the 
portion of so many men and he had never known. 

Where — or how — or when — the Girl entered his 
new life need not concern us. She came one day — 
like a breath of the Springtime of life, let us say — and 
he "feir* for her. Perhaps if it had not been this Girl, 
it would have been some other — for when one seeks, 
one finds — so he found her. 

She was a daughter of the City, skilled in the ways of 
men and armed cap-a-pie. And she found him the 
strangest man she had ever met. But with all her 
acumen, combined with an intuition that was the 
birthright of her sex, she did not know the reason was 
because he was so genuine. 

She accepted him with the grain of salt, the reluctance 
of faith, that she accorded all men. 

He, in turn, was bewildered. This was his play- 
time of life. He had earned, through unremitting toil, 
the right to this youth. With gold, with glowing 
heart, with outstretched arms, he welcomed back the 
lad of the yesterdays — but he came not. Once in a 
while he caught glimpses of him — he even heard 
snatches of his laughter — the care-free lilt of his voice 
— saw the merry light in his eyes — yet when he 
would have embraced him, he was gone — a vague 
shape in the shadows. 

22 



He could not play. The pity of it! — he could not 
play. Life had left too stern an impress upon him. 
He was a stranger to his youth and when he bade it 
return it was afraid — afraid of that grave demeanor, 
that care-worn face, that disillusionment in the tired 
eyes of the man it had grown to be. 

So our story draws to a close — a tale untold. For 
the girl — proffered the wealth of the Indies — the 
wealth of a hungry heart that sought naught save the 
youth of her — with the canny lack-o'-sight of the life 
she had led, mistook gold for dross — and the end of our 
story is lost in its very beginning. 

Which teaches — if we must have a lesson — that 
youth is youth, and age is age — and never the twain 
shall meet — to paraphrase the words of one who, too, 
knows life. 



23 




THE CIRCUS 

Y little daughter took me to the circus 
last evening. I teased her so persis- 
tently she couldn*t refuse. So we went, 
hand-in-hand, as two children should go. 

It was my first circus m fifteen years — 
think of it! Fifteen years is a very long time for one to 
go without seeing a circus. But, you see, Fve been out 
of luck. Whenever a circus came to town it seemed all 
the little folks had made their plans and I couldn't get 
any of them to take me. Of course there were the big 
folks; but one can't have any fun at a circus with big 
folks — they're so absurd, so matter-of-fact — they 
can't make-believe at all. Big folks see too much and 
they just haven't the imagination anyway. 

It was a three-ring circus and I'm glad it was, for if 
it had been a six-ring circus there would have been a lot 
of things we'd missed. But, you bet, we didn't miss 
anything. We had reserved seats right in front of the 
middle ring — and — oh yes — we had ice cream cones 
and lemonade and peanuts and everything, too. I tell 
you when my daughter takes me to a circus she knows 
how to do the job up right. 

Well, I'm not going to tell you all about that circus, 
even though it looked as if I might, when I started out. 
If you want to see what I saw and have the fun I had 
and become the small boy I became — you go and get 
your daughter or somebody's daughter to take you to a 
circus. Only — I warn you — don't be foolish and 
select a grown-up daughter. They just won't do. 

24 



But I will relent and tell you this much. Maybe it's 
just to whet your old dried-up anticipation to a keen 
edge — maybe it's just to make you jealous — 

Anyway — 

We saw elephants and camels and lions and tigers and 
hyenas and zebras and a lot of other funny animals 
whose names I can't spell. 

We saw the loveliest ladies in pink tights and spangled 
dresses on snow-white horses and coal-black horses. 

We saw tight-rope walkers and trapeze performers 
and bare-back riders and aerial artists and tumblers and 
jugglers. 

We saw funny clowns — a whole lot of them — and 
trick donkeys that nobody could ride. 

We saw ponies and monkeys and dogs that all per- 
formed together and did the most amazing things. 

We saw elephants that danced and rolled over and 
acted just as if they knew as much as you and I. 

We saw chariot races that made us get right up from 
our seats and cheer and everything. 

Perhaps we missed some things. As I think back 
Fm afraid we did. You see there were so many things 
to see. But we sat there and munched peanuts and 
kept our four eyes just as busy as we could keep them, 
ril leave it to you if we could have done more. 

Every little while the ring-master would come out in 
the center ring, right in front of us, and make an an- 
nouncement. You bet the whole show stopped when 
he talked. One time he told about the big concert 

25 



they were going to have after the main show. He 
said they couldn't think of departing from the time- 
honored custom of all circuses, so they just had to have 
a concert. But, he explained, they called it a "Revue." 
Anyway there were to be a lot of pretty girls — and — 
sh-sh! — some of them were European **shimmy" 
dancers. 

I did want to stay — the tickets were only fifteen 
cents — but my daughter didn't think it was quite 
proper. 

So we went home. 

I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that circus. 
As one grows up one gets too few pleasures like that, 
I think. 

But I did tell her — 

She said she enjoyed it too — but most of the acts 
had been at Keith's, hadn't they? 

Ah me! 



26 




THEY SAY: 

LIKED his looks. He was wholesome. There was 
something in his clear eyes that suggested tender 
strength; something in the resolute set of his 
shoulders that said "I am master of myself.*' 

"Who is that man?" I queried a casual 
acquaintance near by. 

He named him. Then he leaned toward me confi- 
dentially: ''They say — ," and he repeated some idle, 
malicious gossip that had a sting in it. 

She had never appeared to better advantage. The 
play had been made for her and she, it seemed, had 
been made for the play. Through the three acts of the 
tragedy she held her audience spell-bound. One 
feared to whisper, lest he break the enchantment of 
such art. It was a triumph — a new crown of laurel 
for the greatest tragedienne of the age. 

Then — I hear a murmur of voices from the orches- 
tra chairs behind me. Faint, but clear, I heard her 
name spoken — a pause — then, with a rising inflec- 
tion — ''They say — .*' I caught no more save a hushed, 
but knowing, laugh. 

They say — 

Who are they that say ? THEY — the great un- 
known! THEY — the subterfuge of some malicious 
mind! THEY — the anonymous messenger of the slan- 
derer! THEY — the Borgia with a viper's tongue! 

They say — 

How — thoughtlessly^ I shall say — we preface many 
of our remarks with those qualifying words. As though 

27 



with their utterance we neatly and adroitly passed the 
responsibility to another, and, consequently, felt free 
to say things we would otherwise never voice. 

It's a habit — a dangerous habit — a habit with 
potential harm in it that is incalculable. For with that 
which almost invariably follows our "They say — ,** 
we create mistrust, breed suspicion, destroy confidence, 
assassinate character and do irreparable injury. 

And it*s all so useless. We simply traffic in gossip, 
in slander, in defamation. We gain naught and we 
lose much, for some of our self-respect is sacrificed 
every time we utter those fateful words. 

We, as a nation, should have learned our lesson. It 
is easy to recall the rumors that went the rounds of the 
country. Rumors of atrocities on the part of the 
Allies. Rumors of Red Cross bungling. Rumors of 
this and rumors of that — propaganda to shake our 
confidence in our leaders — our friends — ourselves. 
And all prefaced with those significant words — 

1 hey say. 

Take this little preachment to heart. When next the 
phrase comes to your lips, deny it utterance. If you 
will not sponsor what you are about to express — or if 
you can't place responsibility for it upon a definite 
person or source — let it remain unsaid. 

Do this, and you'll be happier and you'll not rob 
others of their happiness. 



28 



MAKE-BELIEVE 

WELL I know that the child heart is a 
priceless possession. Think what it 
means to be able to set out in quest of 
adventure in the realms of Make- 
Believe and find new beauties opening 
up at every hand! Who would ask more of Happiness! 
What matter it if in the end — at the return from the 
journey — there comes that inevitable tarnishing and 
the gold of romance is only after all the brass of fact! 
Has not one had the even fleeting pleasure of golden 
hours and the heights and depths of imagination! 

The memories of our childhood days should be re- 
lived and not treasured up and laid away in lavender, 
as fond mothers lay away their children's toys in old 
bureau drawers and sometimes steal away to cry o'er 
them in twilight afternoons. Yesterday should ever 
be around the corner from today and never difficult to 
find. What delight to let the feet retrace their steps 
and wander back again along the idling paths — paths 
unknown to those prosaic ones who never turn their 
eyes from mere material things. 

If you cannot renew your youth at will you have fail- 
ed to learn the secret of happiness, for therein is the pe- 
rennial font and the waters that banish care and 
responsibilities. All things in the Land of Make-Believe 
seem rose-hued and alluring. The Jack-o'-Dreams may 
build only castles of air, but his mansions bring him a far 
greater measure of joy than those built by the material- 
ist. The sunshine glints the windows and the breezes of 
the eternal spring are wafted through the rooms. With 

29 



him enchantment and charm go hand in hand. Matter 
it, then, where they lead him! 

I have only pity for those souls who, having nothing 
to look back upon, have nothing to look forward to. 
Long ago they closed the door of their youth and the 
bright vista is theirs no more. Only before them is the 
wearisome road and the mountains beyond. Year 
after year they have sealed their heart to the sweet 
scents of the Garden of Dreams, to the vale across the 
borderland. Threadbare of soul they are and thread- 
bare they must remain unto the end. 

You have within you the romance of youth. For 
you there is a garden and a presence awaiting you 
there. But is it a beautiful garden, a veritable garden 
of dreams, and is the voice of the presence soft and 
sweet and low — or is it a weed-grown garden, a garden 
of desolation, and is the voice of the presence a voice 
that is never heard? 

You are the one who knows! 



30 




IF I KNEW YOU AND YOU KNEW ME — 

NE night — so the story goes — when 
Doctor Johnson had forgathered with his 
good friend, OHver Goldsmith, at the old 
Mitre Tavern, he turned to him and ex- 
claimed: 

"Goldy — d'jQ see that man over there? I hate 
him!" 

"Hate him!" ejaculated Goldsmith — "why, bless 
my soul, you don't even know him." 

"Ah, that's just the point." said Johnson. "If I 
knew him, Vd like him." 

The story's good enough to be true. I hope it is. 

How many folks we'd like if we only knew them; how 
many folks would like us if they only knew us! 

We go our ways through the days, touching elbows, 
brushing past, giving scarce a glance. Sometimes, like 
Dr. Johnson, we hate. More often we simply take a 
dislike; are tolerant or indifferent. Our attitude is 
based on — what ? Vague impressions, based on in- 
tangibles. We simply do not know. 

The greatest study of mankind is man. To begin 
that study with yourself means to develop personality, 
and the development of personality means the develop- 
ment of the personalities you meet. 

Do you ever stand on a crowded street and watch the 
crowds go by? I do. There is no more fascinating 
pastime, for each human being in that throng is a 
counterpart of you — over, equal to, or under your 

31 



development, spiritually, mentally, physically — sub- 
ject to the same emotions that move you. You are 
creatures of a common destiny. 

And if you could but know them — each one — 
what a world of experience would be yours — to what 
heights might you rise — to what depths might you 
descend! 

The war taught men to know one another as they had 
not known before. It scrambled together in the great 
cantonments men of every race and creed, of every con- 
dition of servitude — rich and poor, high and low — 
and in the constant association of the days and with 
the wonderful fusing influence of a single purpose, they 
learned to know one another. There a man was 
stripped to a many and stood revealed for what he was. 
Some of the mighty fell and some of the lowly rose. 
Out of it all came a common fellowship that will bring 
miracles to pass in years to come. 

How often you have had little regard for some one, 
and then a common cause — the work of a club to 
which you both belonged, for instance — threw you 
together. You were amazed, perhaps, to find that 
here, awaiting your cultivation, was a friendship rich 
in possibilities. You had simply come into the know. 

Let us not take snap judgment of others. As the 
saying goes: "There is so much good in the Worst of 
us, and so much bad in the best of us — .** 

After all, we linger on the way but a little while as we 
pass along, and there is so much to be learned in the 
journey through life, that it is well worth while to 
acquire some of it through knowing our comrades of the 
road. 

32 



A JUNE NIGHT 

THIS should have been written months ago, 
I presume; but old man Winter kept 
hanging around the house of Spring in our 
town this year until her daughter, June, 
never had a chance. She turned a cold 
shoulder to her admirers and sent them scurrying to the 
fireside to thaw out. 

September had no such provocation. And Septem- 
ber has given us all we would have received from June 
had she been in a kindlier mood. 

Last night was as perfect a June night as that of 
any June I can remember. The air was soft and 
balmy, a faint breeze sent the trees a-whispering, 
delicate perfumes of a thousand flowers stole through 
the senses, myriad insects droned a lullaby. Over all a 
full moon cast a silver radiance. It was a night for 
lovers — romance, mystery and charm blent in a 
perfect symphony. 

It was upon a night such as this, long ago, that you, 
in the thrall of the first romance of youth, strolled in the 
garden with Her. 

Light your pipe, stretch out in your arm chair, old 
codger, and let memory paint that picture in your 
mind. 

You can see Her now as she was that night — a slim, 
girlish figure, dressed in some soft white dress. She 
walked demurely by your side and a slender hand 
rested on your arm. 

You couldn't analyze your feelings then, old codger, 
and you can't analyze them now, even though the years 

33 



have brought you keen perceptions. You were in 
love — in love with youth — with life — with the 
world — with HER! And about you was the spell of a 
night in June — a night made for such as you — a 
night when it was vouchsafed you should be closer to 
the best in you than at any time in after life — save 
one. 

You kissed Her! The first kiss! You don't know 
how or when or why it happened. As the most natural 
thing in the world — as the only thing that was to be — 
you turned to Her and she to you. Something in the 
eyes of both — something each saw in that divine 
instant — revealed the eternal truth — that she was 
yours and you were hers. She swayed toward you, as 
gently as a flower is swayed in the breeze — and your 
lips met! 

Cherish that picture, old case-hardened codger, for 
life paints it but once for a man. Stained as you are 
with the years, surfeited as you may be with sensa- 
tions, there never was, and there never will be, one 
moment that can hold the exquisite pleasure of that 
instant of revelation in a garden in June in the long ago. 

*Tiffle!'' you exclaim. 

Is it? 

Ask the girl of the garden — she's there by your side. 

Ask your son — he's there in the garden, with Her. 

Ask yourself — the self that lives inside that old 
shell of you — the shell life has made that the kernel 
might be kept sweet. 



34 



THE TALENT 

PERHAPS it was the day — rainy and drear; 
perhaps it was the aftermath of an hour with 
a group of brilliant and successful men at the 
club; perhaps it was a touch of morbid intro- 
spection; perhaps it was a melancholy in- 
duced by a combination of little happenings, stretching 
over the days — each trivial in itself, but in total 
almost overwhelmingly depressive. 

Thompson — the name will serve as well as any — 
was blue. Not touched with the azure of such a spell 
of blues as comes to most mortals upon occasion, but 
in the depths of indigo blues — a dangerous mental 
hazard. 

Possessing uncommon common sense he sat down to 
analyze his condition. 

His day at the office had been trying, but no more so 
than scores of other days he could recollect. 

His family affairs were pacific. There were little 
annoyances — true! — but they amounted to no more 
than the average give and take he had found made up 
the course of married life. 

His friends had not changed. He knew some he 
could count upon, some he could not. Still, all in all, 
they averaged well. 

What, then, was the trouble? Why this sudden, 
acute depression? Was it dissatisfaction with himself, 
with others, with his surroundings, his future? 

He could not reason it out. His thoughts were in 
turmoil. 

35 



Then, suddenly, he remembered a parable he had 
heard his father read time and again on quiet Sunday- 
evenings, when the family was gathered 'round for an 
hour of Scriptures. He groped for the theme — the 
parable of the talents. 

That was it! There was the answer to his state of 
mind. It all came to him quite clearly. This was the 
culmination of a store of little envies. It stretched 
through the years. He could see how he had added to 
it bit by bit until it had grown into a monstrous thing — 
quite the greatest bogy he had ever met. 

He picked up, one by one, the threads that made the 
tangled skein of his thoughts. 

First, there was the great singer he had heard. He 
could not sing like that; he could not sing at all. 

Next, there was the musician he had listened to with 
rapt attention. If only he could play like that. He 
could not tell one note from another. 

Then the orator who had held him spell-bound. Ah, 
to be able to talk like that. He had never made a 
public speech in his life. 

So he reviewed — groping into the past — the things 
he had seen, the things he had heard, the things he had 
read, and the things he had envied. And it came to 
him quite clearly, after a time, that he had envied each 
and every talent he ,had seen displayed — envied until 
black depression had come as a consequence. 

He felt he had no talent. There was not one thing 
he did well. All about him were men and women 
richly endowed with natural gifts, while he was less 

36 



than average — lowly, mean, impoverished! It was 
unfair! Why could he not have had at least one talent 
— one thing that would distinguish him from the 
common-place! 

He was a useless member of society — 



They gathered at the bier to pay a last tribute to the 
dead. It was a sorrowful company; from far and wide 
they had come. And in whispers thus they spoke of 
him: 

"What a loss he will be to the community. He was so 
talented. He knew, as no one I know knew, how to 
serve. He had a talent for knowing just what to say 
and what to do. He always did the right thing at the 
right time. I almost envy him the heritage of the 
name he will leave his children. Such as he is rare — 
we shall not soon see his like again." 

Talents are relative — mistake not your own! 



37 



p.p. 

THERE was a subtle scent of autumn in the 
air. The trees had begun to change to 
those somber tints of brown and red and 
gold that are the glory of the waning year. 
A soft haze turned perspectives of town and 
country to pastels of some master brush. Borne on 
the vagrant breeze came the tang of burning leaves — 

By such signs as these I knew the time had come. 
And yet — I did not need them — for in my soul was 
a yearning that naught els€ would satisfy — within me 
was a void that naught else could fill — 

I could get it — that I knew — for I had investigated 
before I built my hopes too high. So I made my lunch a 
frugal meal — that I might be the better prepared 
when it came — that I might satiate myself, so to 
speak. 

When the time came — when I was ready, aye, 
primed, for it — I called my garcon to my side — I 
whispered in his ear — his face lighted with under- 
standing — he nodded sagely — he departed. 

I sat back in my chair. Anticipation sent pleasant 
shivers over me. I lit a fragrant cigarette, inhaled, 
exhaled — and then — in the nebulous cloud of the 
smoke — I saw — 

The kitchen was old, raftered, roomy. Row upon 
row of shining pots and pans graced its walls. Strung 
across its length, above the head, were little clumps of 
fragrant herbs that spiced the air. It was a place to 
make glad the heart of an epicure. 

38 



At a big table in the center of this room stood a little, 
white-haired, rosy-cheeked, cheery old lady — the 
genius of the place. About her were crocks and tins 
and spoons and shakers. Her sleeves were rolled up. 
On her blue gingham apron were spots and flecks of 
flour. She deftly rolled the dough on a board before 
her. 

Presently she paused, drew a number of pans toward 
her and with the skill of an artist fitted and shaped the 
dough into each. From a big crock at her side she 
ladled a rich brown mass until each tin was filled to the 
brim. 

At one side of the kitchen was an old-fashioned brick 
oven. To this she turned, threw open the door and 
thrust in her hand. Satisfied, she placed the pans in 
the oven and closed the door carefully. On her face 
was a whimsical smile and she hummed an old tune 
under her breath as she began other tasks of the day. 

Now and again she opened the oven door and in- 
spected her work. At length she was quite satisfied. 
With a broad paddle she drew out the pans and care- 
fully deposited them on a shelf outside the window. 

There they stood — in tempting array — six of 
them — a triumph of culinary art — a banquet fit for 
a krng! 

With the cream and tan of their flaky crust was blent 
the yellow and gold and brown of their face, and wafted 
from them was an odor indescribable — an odor that 
traveled across the miles, through the years, and 

39 



assailed my nostrils like some incense from the vanished 
past of boyhood days — 

I came to myself with a start. My cigarette was 
burning my fingers. The garcon was approaching 
the table. He laid a plate before me. On it reposed — 
in lean, watery, dyspeptic, anaemic dignity — a piece 
of — 

"What is this?" I demanded, with irate eye. 

"A piece of home-made pumpkin pie, sir," he said 
suavely. 

**The hell it is!" I ejaculated. 

After all, gentle reader, can you blame me? 



40 



IMAGINATION 

JOHN HENRY possessed a vivid imagination. 
For instance — 
If there was a cloud in the sky of a fair day he 
imagined it would rain before night. 

If there was a twinge of pain in his "tummy" he 
imagined he would have to undergo an operation for 
appendicitis. 

If he drank a cup of coffee after six p. m. he imagined 
he would toss through a sleepless night. 

And thus it went. 

There was nothing in his life, from sunrise to sunset, 
that his imagination did not seize upon, feed upon and 
grow upon. 

Folks said he was a pessimist. But he wasn^t. It 
was his imagination — that vivid imagination that 
possessed him. 

So John Henry went through life — building bridges 
that he never crossed — anticipating trouble that 
never happened — seeing things that did not exist. 

Finally he died — and you can imagine where his 
imagination imagined he would go. 

So much for John Henry. 

Henry John possessed a vivid imagination. 

For instance — 

If he saw the crude model of an invention he imag- 
ined it in its perfected form, making the work of the 
world lighter, easier, better. 

41 



If he looked at a waterfall he imagined it harnessed 
and turning the wheels of industry — furnishing light, 
heat and power. 

If he ate a speckled trout he imagined himself hip- 
deep in the racing waters, with his fly on the wing and 
his eye awatch for the cast. 

And thus it went. 

There was nothing in his life, from sunrise to sunset, 
that his imagination did not seize upon, feed upon and 
grow upon. 

Folks said he was an optimist. But he wasn't. It 
was his imagination — that vivid imagination that 
possessed him. 

So Henry John went through life — dreaming dreams 
that came true — anticipating events that inevitably 
happened — seeing visions that turned to realities. 

Finally he died — and his imagination saw smiling 
fields and laughing waters as he passed over. 

So much for Henry John. 

What kind of an imagination have you — a John 
Henry's or a Henry John's? 

Isn't it worth imagining? 



42 




MY FRIEND 

HAVE a friend — such a friend as a man is some- 
times blessed with, I think, to keep his faith 
sweet and steadfast. 

This friend of mine is a friend in all that the 
word can convey. 

External appearance means nothing to him. I 
could be unshaven, unkempt — one of the dregs and 
flotsam of humanity — and he would still be my friend. 

Wealth means nothing to him. I am not wealthy 
in worldly goods, but I could lose the little I have, 
come down to a hovel and crust, and he would still be 
my friend. 

What I am means nothing to him. I could lose the 
respect of my fellows, no longer deserve the love of my 
family, become a social outcast — aye, even a criminal 

— and he would still be my friend. 

If I am happy he rejoices. If I am sad, he sympa- 
thizes with me. He knows my every mood and is re- 
sponsive to it. 

Sometimes — I am sorry to say — I am cross with 
him, and even abuse him. But he never complains and 
he never holds a grudge against me. I have only to 
smile — to show that my *'peeve" is forgotten — and 
his brown eyes glow with love and gratitude. 

In trial and affliction, in prosperity and success, in 
the sunshine and shadows of life, he is always the same 

— steadfast and true — the most devoted friend a man 
could have. 

43 



He is poor — as reckoned wealth goes — this friend 
of mine. And yet he is rich in many things that mere 
money cannot buy. And these riches of his he lavishes 
upon me — love, constancy, trust, and a belief that can- 
not be shaken. 

To him I am the greatest man in the world. His 
eyes follow me until I am lost to his sight. At the 
sound of my voice he is a-quiver with joy. I know that 
without the slightest hesitancy he would gladly lay down 
his life for me or for mine. 

I have such a friend — thank God! — and these 
words of mine are too futile to express my appreciation 
of him. 

And yet he is not rare. Other men have friends like 
him. Other men know the beautiful comradeship of a 
friendship such as his. Other men will voice with me, 
all the sentiment I have expressed — for — 

This friend of mine is my dog! 



44 



THE KILL-JOY 

THE child of the tenements sat on the door- 
step of the wretched, ramshackle building 
she called "home." Around her the mid- 
noon heat throbbed against the pave. 
The multitudinous sounds of the street 
beat upon her ears. But she was unmindful of all else 
save a "dolly" which she held in her arms and clutched 
to her ragged breast now and again. In her gaunt eyes 
was a mother-light, born of that inherent instinct which 
knows not time, nor place, nor circumstance. 

"Pooh! It's only a stick with a rag tied to it," said 
a voice. 

A Kill-Joy spoke. 

She watched him as he swung with his old familiar stride 
down the street. Her thoughts were in a delicious 
tumult. It had all come to pass as she had dreamed 
it would. She was the happiest girl in the whole world. 
A stray wisp of light caught its reflection in the ring on 
her finger and darted away to tell its fellows. She 
laughed happily as she, too, caught the sparkle. To- 
morrow, at the store, how surprised the girls would be. 

"Pooh! It's nothing much to make a fuss over — 
probably only a chip," said a voice. 

A Kill-Joy spoke. 

At forty he was down and — out! No — not out — 
he'd show them that he could come back! And he did. 
It was no easy fight — this starting over again and 

45 



climbing up to his old position. But he made it — and 
he won. The blood he sweat — and the rebuffs he 
met — these were experiences he wished for no man. 
But he was proud of his achievement — proud that he 
had accomplished what they told him couldn*t be done. 

"Pooh! Anyone with his luck could do the same 
thing," said a voice. 

A Kill-Joy spoke. 

The Kill-Joys of life — how well we all know them. 
Whether our station be among the most high or with 
those who are lowly — the Kill-Joy dwells in our 
midst — to darken the day, to curdle the sweet, to 
blemish the perfect! 

The Kill-Joy — unfortunate and unhappy being — 
thoughtless, malicious, envious, or vindictive — always 
the discordant note in the song of life! 

The Kill-Joy — out of tune with happiness — bearer 
of roil and rue — sower of seeds of discontent that bear 
only a harvest of wormwood and thistles! 

The Kill- Joy — may you find no converts among us! 



46 



s 



THE CLOCK WATCHER 

OME one, long on experience and pithy in 
style, once upon a time expressed himself 
thus : 

"If you never do more than youVe paid for, 
you'll never be paid for more than you do/' 

Which — be it said earnestly — is an axiom that 
should be engraved upon the brow of that all too com- 
mon genus — the clock watcher. 

It was Elbert Hubbard who said, "If you work for a 
man, in Heaven's name work for him." Although he 
delivered himself of this pat truism in another con- 
nection, it applies equally well to our text with the addi- 
tion of a few words; Let us phrase it thus: 

*Tf you work eight hours for a man, in Heaven's 
name work eight hours for him." 

The clock watcher is a time killer. He is a soldier in 
the ranks, and destined forever to soldier in the ranks 
until he leaves the ranks of soldiers. 

The clock watcher gets on the job late — if he dares; 
and also leaves it early — if he dares. He counts the 
seconds, minutes, hours. With him a day invariably 
drags along, for he has one eye on its slightest move- 
ment. 

The clock watcher never becomes interested in his 
work, for that would mean he was no longer a clock 
watcher. His slogan is to give the least he can for the 
most he can get — and beat every hour out of as many 
minutes as his ingenuity can devise. 

47 



IVe used the pronoun "he" to describe the species. 

That's unfair. 

"She** is equally, if not more, applicable. 

And she has greater opportunities to become an ex- 
pert clock watcher. Has not some wise one said, 
**The female of the species is more deadly than the 
male?" 

She must powder her nose, fuss with her hair, fix her 
shirt waist, stand at the water cooler, gossip in the 
washroom, manicure her nails, dilly-dally at her work — 
do a hundred and one things that eat into those weary 
hours of her occupation, so that the residue might be 
termed the dregs of a perfect day. 

And always — of course — with one eye flirting 
with old Father Time or his son, Mr. Eight Hour Day. 

Watch her — for she's an interesting study. 

Four o'clock arrives and the hands of time slowly 
creep around to the half-after. There is a bustle of 
expectancy. Slower and slower they creep to the 
quarter-of. By this time she is ready — set — toes 
on mark — eager — every fibre of her being aquiver. 
For a race? Yes! The race to be first out of the 
building at the stroke of the bell that signals release. 

It's a pathetic sight. Pathetic, for there is really an 
opportunity in the business for her. There is really 
something worth while ahead — in authority, in re- 
muneration — if she could only overcome the habit of 
watching the clock, if she would only work with her 
mind on her work and put her heart into it. 

48 



Has what I have said seemed harsh? 

It was meant to, for the clock watcher is a chronic. 
Whether he or she, no gentle hint will suffice. A jolt is 
required. 

Time, next to life itself, is the most precious gift of 
God. 

And in the span of an average life we can accomplish 
but little of the much that is to be done. Only as old 
age approaches, and our faculties become impaired, do 
we keenly appreciate all that we might have done with 
the days, the weeks, the months, the years, vouchsafed 
us. 

Does it not behoove us, then, to employ every min- 
ute of our working hours eagerly and honestly — 
whether our labor and its fruits be bought and paid for 
by others or remain our own? 

Forget the clock — forget it to the extent that its 
kindly reminder to quit comes almost as an intrusion. 

A clock is an instrument of measurement. It 
measures time. But it also measures men — and 
women — and the measure it takes of you is the 
measure of how closely you watch it. 

"A watched pot never boils." And a watched clock 
never smiles. 



49 



OBJECTIVES 

jA ND as they journeyed toward the City of 

/^L Ideals they came upon a Pilgrim plod- 

/ ^k ding aimlessly along the road. "Whither 

y ^^ art thou bound, Brother?" asked the first 

-^ -^^ of them, for he perceived this man did 

not go their way. "Nowhere," replied the Pilgrim 

listlessly; "just travehng." 

Idle some day and watch the World and his Wife go 
by. How readily you can perceive those who have a 
destination and those who have not. With purposeful 
stride the former quickly pass your range of vision. 
With lagging step and hesitant air the latter slowly 
move along. 

You can write it down that no man was ever suc- 
cessful who did not have an objective — a goal to reach 
— an attainment to achieve. 

Years ago when I was at a most impressionistic age 
I had the good fortune to have a real business man for a 
mentor. Of his good advice I recall much, but nothing 
so vividly as this: 

"Set a goal for yourself; attaining it, set another. 
And keep your sights raised high." 

He started life as a clerk in a little two-by-four 
store. His goal was to become proprietor. He at- 
tained it. 

His was a specialty store. The natural result — 
the next step — was to become a manufacturer of 
the specialty he sold. He attained it. 

50 



From that point to become the leading manufacturer 
in his line — first, in his country, next in this country, 
finally, in the world. He attained all of those. 

I have not talked with him for years. I do not know 
what goal he has set for himself now. But I do know 
that he has a goal, for he knows better than anyone 
else that the success he is today is directly traceable to 
setting a mark. 

An objective in life gives you purpose, poise and 
push. You work for a cause and for an effect. You 
progress because you have a definite point to reach. 
You get there because when you are headed in a certain 
direction, and keep moving, you are bound to finally 
arrive. Simple, isn't it.^ 

The man without an objective can be likened to the 
traveler who takes a train without knowing — or 
caring — where it goes; buys five dollars' worth of 
mileage and is ultimately put off at a water tank or a 
junction. The prospect of such devil-may-care ad- 
venturing may be alluring, but it creates no fire-sides 
whereat one may warm the shins in old age. 

If I were starting my business life today Fd set a 
goal with my watch this morning. It might be no 
higher than that of the next clerkship in line, but at 
least it would be something definite to tie to, something 
tangible to work for. And after Fd reached it, Fd 
sight another objective. And so on and on until the 
possibilities and opportunities were exhausted. Then 
I'd seek new fields to conquer, for once the habit of 
setting a goal becomes established, there are no bound- 
ary lines. 

51 



All of which may bring the natural query: "What is 
your goal today?'* 

To which I will cannily reply: "I shall not tell 
you. 

You might try to beat me to it. 
Let me counter — "What is yours?'' 



52 



THE VACANT CHAIR 

SOME vacant chairs have a strange fascination 
to me. Such chairs have a personality. I 
cannot describe it. Those versed in the 
occult, might tell you I refer to an aura. 
Perhaps — but all I know of the sensation I 
experience when I feel drawn toward a vacant chair is 
that of some common humanness. 

It matters little what the physical or esthetic prop- 
erties of such a chair may be. It can be of pine or 
rosewood and mahogany. It can be grossly utilitarian 
or charmingly ornamental. It can be one of a million 
fellows or possess the distinction of an original Chip- 
pendale. 

These things are of no moment. All I know is that 
there are times when I avoid looking at vacant chairs, 
for they seem to be occupied — occupied by those I 
once knew — occupied as I feel sure they have really 
been times agone. And I can almost see familiar faces, 
hear familiar laughter and respond to familiar voices. 

Not long ago I sat at a family dinner table. There 
was a vacant chair. There was always that vacant 
chair. It was a shrine — the shrine of one who was 
no more. 

I had known the occupant in life. To sit at his 
board, to break bread with his family, to see con- 
stantly before me that vacant chair where he would 
have sat and where he was not — that was too much. 

There were times when I saw those of the family who 
were seated about me, glance toward his chair. One 

53 



could read their thoughts; see the pain cross their 
eyes; feel the slight catch in their voices; note the sad 
refrain in their laughter. 

The vacant chair! 

How filled are the homes of the land with vacant 
chairs! Chairs where once there sat a loved one — a 
youth in the promise of his young manhood; a girl in 
the winsomeness of her 'teens; a father in the full flush 
of vigor and life; a mother in the quiet dignity of her 
matronhood. 

The vacant chair! The chair with its well-worn 
arms, the rounded hollow in its upholstered back, the 
shiny leather of its seat, the scuflF and scars on its legs 
and rounds! 

As you gaze upon it, does not some transformation 
take place ? Do not those other eyes of you — the 
eyes of imagination — see something that takes sub- 
stance and shape — that rounds into familiar lines 
— that becomes the smiling face and the jovial self of 
the one whom you often recognized there? 

I find it so with me. 

And I am glad that thus it is. For whether the 
separation from a friend or loved one be that of dis- 
tance or eternity, to be able to create the image and 
endow it with the actuality of the real, is to possess a 
gift that has much of solace in its pain. And yet — 

The vacant chair! 

May fortune grant it be long, happy years before I 
must conjure up in its emptiness the reality of you, my 
friend! 

54 



GREEN PASTURES 

ONCE upon a time I had a neighbor who had 
a peculiar slant upon life. He always 
thought in terms of perspective. The 
things that were on the horizon, or a part 
of the other fellow's possessions, were 
always better than the things that were his. 

To him, my yard was always better than his yard — 
the grass was greener, the flowers bloomed more pro- 
fusely, the vegetables looked more like the illustrations 
in the seed catalog. 

If we discussed business, he always wished he was in 
a line like mine, where trouble was a minus quantity 
and opportunity said ''Tag, You're It!" at every 
corner. 

Always he was discontented with what he had and 
sighed for those things others enjoyed. Thus he dis- 
counted himself, his ability, his opportunities, his 
advantages, his luck, his good fortune, and suffered the 
loss — financial and mental — that inevitably resulted. 

The only things he never discounted were his troubles. 
He had more of those than any one he knew and, to his 
mind, they were the only things he could successfully 
accumulate. 

The truth of the matter was that this neighbor of 
mine was no more fortunate or unfortunate than his 
neighbors. He had as nice a home, as happy a family, 
as many worldly possessions, as big a business oppor- 
tunity, as good health — but he was afflicted with that 
prevalent malady of both men and women, discontent. 

55 



In his case it wasn't exactly envy and it wasn't 
covetousness. It was just a state of mind he had 
allowed himself to drift into. A state of mind that 
caused every pasture in life to look greener than the 
one wherein he grazed. 

It was a sad state of affairs — and it is still a sad 
state of affairs, for he hasn't changed in the years since 
I had him for a neighbor. Only the other day I saw 
him and his first words, after greetings had been ex- 
changed, voiced the wish that he might have another 
territory — the one next to his — for the sales oppor- 
tunities there were ten times what he now had. 

With me, you'll pity this unhappy man, for you 
know, as I do, that his troubles are imaginary — they 
are but phantoms of his own creation. To him there 
would be no meaning in that old saying: *' I am an old 
man and have had many troubles, but most of them 
never happened." 

But stop! Maybe — and remember I say, maybe — 
somewhere, sometime in your life, oh jaded reader, the 
other fellow's pastures have looked greener than your 
own, and there has been discontent with your lot in 
your heart. 

If the supposition be true, then apply the sure 
remedy to the ill. Just vault the fence that separates 
you from the land of your heart's desire and, turning, 
view again the other side. 

Then lightly, blithesomely vault you back again — 
for a cure should have been effected. 



56 



A MEMORIAL DAY EPIC 

IN Fountain Town Memorial Day is a real event. 
There it is not a holiday in the accepted sense of 
the word, but a day that savors rather of re- 
ligious rites — a day when communion is held 
with the past — a day of sacred memories to 
our elders and a lesson in patriotism to the younger 
generation. 

It was on this day the boys of '61 came into their own 
again. Then they donned their old blue uniforms, 
carefully laid away between times for the occasion, and 
gathered at the G. A. R. Post in Memorial Hall to 
reminisce; to live again those days when they felt the 
urge of the hot blood of youth, shouldered a gun and 
marched away from loved ones to settle a controversy 
that had split a nation in twain. 

It was on this day, too, they failed to see the familiar 
face of many a comrade they had greeted the year be- 
fore and they realized as at no other time that theirs 
were numbered years — that they were but the residue 
of the thousands that once marched shoulder to 
shoulder with them. 

So, in Fountain Town, Memorial Day is always a 
solemn occasion. One finds the gravity of the elders 
reflected in the children, and one realizes — as I think 
one must go to our small towns to realize — that here 
is the heart and the sympathy and the great human 
love of the nation. 

Memorial Day in the Year of our Lord Nineteen 
Hundred and Nineteen dawned bright and clear. The 

57 



sky was that intense blue one sometimes finds on a per- 
fect day in May; the sunshine was warming to the old 
bones of one, and the fresh green dress of trees and 
grass and shrubs formed a fitting setting for this day 
of tribute to the dead. 

"Daddy'* Prouty was up and out long before the 
rest of the household had stirred. **Mother" had 
pressed his uniform the night before and he had 
donned it with that little shiver of expectancy he 
always felt when the great event came each year. 

Ordinarily he would have slept late into the morning, 
for his rheumatism had bothered him of late and he 
found it more and more an effort to get around. 

But this morning it was different. There were things 
he wanted to think about — to think about alone — 
and he knew he would be undisturbed for an hour in 
his favorite seat in the garden. 

So there he wended his way and sat down on a rustic 
bench in the early sunshine. 

Through the years he had seen many days like this 
come and go. He had felt the full measure of their 
sorrow and their happiness. One by one the com- 
panions of his youth — the brave boys of his company 
— had gone to the camping ground Over There. And 
the feeling was upon him that his turn would be next. 

He could not have told why this premonition was 
upon him, but he meant to grope it out. Hence this 
quiet hour alone. 

This Memorial Day was different — somehow — 
and he knew wherein the difference lay. John, young- 
est son, was not there — not there to pat him on the 

58 



back as he started off — not there to say, as he used to 
say, "Goodbye, dad; show them you still can step it 
off with the best of 'em/' 

For John slept in Flanders Fields, as he had thought 
once — oh so long ago — he would sleep in the field of 
Gettysburg. 

A tear stole down his wrinkled cheek. His head 
dropped lower and lower until it rested upon the handle 
of his cane. 

John! John! Light of his life! The promise of his 
failing years! Blood of his blood! Flesh of his flesh! 
And gone! 

Suddenly he straightened up. These were not a 
soldier's thoughts. His was a woman's weakness. 
John had died — as he in the years agone would have 
died — for his country. He had given — and been 
spared. John had given — and the gift had been 
accepted. 

The Great Democracy! Had not both fought for the 
same principles — the same ends — the same great 
motives? John was gone, but he remained, and in 
him must be evidenced the courage and the patriotism 
that had ever been associated with the name. 

A tender smile wreathed his lips. The anguish and 
the thought of death had passed away. In its stead 
there glowed in his fine old face the light that is the 
light that "passeth understanding." 



In the afternoon of that Memorial Day, as one 
watched the line of marchers slowly wend its way to- 

59 



ward our Calvary, one saw in the little group in front — 
a straggled group of blue-clad old men — one figure 
that stood out like a cameo — the figure of a proud old 
man, erect,! soldierly and with eyes that ever looked 
beyond the horizon of the affairs of men. 

And one saw not — if one understood — the Spanish- 
American veterans that followed, or the trim clad lads 
in khaki — for one realized that he had seen "the 
resurrection and the life/* 

And who shall say that side by side with that un- 
faltering figure in blue — step in step with him — 
there did not march the spirit of another — a soldier 
whose grave there was in Flanders Fields ? 



60 




"DICTATED BUT NOT READ" 

PICKED up a letter that lay atop of this morning's 
mail. It was a long letter and an important let- 
ter. Neatly inscribed at the bottom of the final 
page were the significant words, **Dictated but 
not read/* 

No, you're wrong. This is not to be a dissertation 
on the subject of why so-called business men will per- 
mit important communications to go forth from their 
offices without the precaution of first assuring them- 
selves that Gladys wrote exactly what they dictated, 
spelled the words correctly and punctuated the sen- 
tences according to Hoyle. 

On the contrary — 

I ran across an old friend recently — one I had not 
seen in years. But I knew more about him than he 
realized — never mind how — and I knew that his life 
and my letter had this in common — both were dictated 
but not read. 

He was one of those individuals — of which there are 
many in the world — who starts out but fails to finish. 
In golf parlance, he never ''followed through,'' He 
dictated his life, if you will accept the analogy, and 
then he absented himself from the administration 
offices. 

He never stopped long enough to read himself; to see 
whether his dictation came out as he gave it; to catch 
the physical mistakes; to correct the mental errors 
after-thought made manifest. 

As a consequence he blundered along, made enemies 
more easily than friends, and was always at a loss to 

61 



understand why people did not "get him** as he in- 
tended they should. 

Dictated but not read! 

How much of your life are you living as haphazardly 
as my friend is living his? Isn't it worth while to 
pause for a moment and take stock? 

The things we plan, the things we do, the things we 
say, all have their aftermath as well as their initiative. 
To every alpha there is an omega. It is just as impor- 
tant to conclude as to begin. And the conclusion may 
have far more in \t for us^ for it includes not only the 
beginning but all that follows after — sometimes with 
far-reaching effects. 

Dictated but not read! 

Think of youself the next time you read this state- 
ment — so indicative of undue haste — of carelessness 
— of indifference. 

Then review your acts of the day and see how many 
you find that might truthfully be said to have been 
dictated but not read. 

If you're honest with yourself — the surprise party 
will be yours. 



62 



WHAT IS SUCCESS? 

WHAT is Success? 
That question came to me the other 
evening when I had finished reading an 
account in the old-home paper of the 
Hfe of a "prominent resident/' It 
was what might be termed a **post-mortem/' for he had 
recently died. 

It told of his sterling qualities; of the friends he had 
made; of the good he had done; of the loss to the com- 
munity, the church, the family; of his fraternal con- 
nections; of his business interests; of the hundred and 
one laudatory things that it is perhaps meet should be 
said of the dead. 

But — 

I lit my old briar and leaned back in my chair, lost 
in a maze of recollections. 

Was he a success? 

The town where he had lived was my old-home town : 
the town where I had spent the better part of my boy- 
hood. I knew its every street and alleyway; I knew 
its folks — plain folks and rich folks; I knew its life — 
and I knew him. Knew him in the heyday of his 
beginnings, when he was giving promise of that success 
which was to crown his later years — the success which 
I had just reviewed. 

And I traced his life, step by step, as I had known it. 
Traced it from the days when he was a school bully 
(later they toned it to ^^aggressiveness"); on through to 

63 



sharp young manhood, when he had tricked Kate into 
breaking her engagement with Alf, and then married 
her himself; on to the business his father had be- 
queathed him — a law practice — and there memories 
came, stark and unrelenting. 

I recalled the day he had **sent up" Old Jason on 
evidence that was flimsy at best, and acquired his little 
farm (it completed his parcel) from the ruined family, 
within a few months thereafter. I recalled another 
day, too, when Granny Ganes was set out of her 
miserable cottage and found her way to the poor 
house, because ^'business was business" — his business. 
And so they came — incidents, scenes, pictures of the 
past, out of a memory that teemed with the host of 
them. 

Then it all faded away, and another life came into 
my mind. A life that, too, had passed beyond, but 
with only a bare line among the death notices for an 
epitaph. 

And I recalled other scenes and other ways, yet of the 
same familiar days. I recalled a fragile Httle man, who 
made but a scanty living, but who seemed to give and 
give, of himself and his meager possessions, whenever 
and wherever I could associate him. 

He it was who nursed the sick through the days 
when pestilence visited our village; who seemed to 
sense where want or care or sorrow made itself manifest, 
and assuaged it in his humble fashion; whom little 
children and dumb creatures loved instinctively, and 
whom older folks were wont to shake their heads over 
and commiserate. 

64 



Then I compared the two. Just why I do not know, 
for before me was the evidence that one had achieved' 
success, and certainly those who knew the other — if 
they can recall him — will tell you he was but an abject 
failure. 

But — 

What is success? 

I have my opinion. 

You must form your own. 



65 



CHANGING GEARS 

YESTERDAY Joe Dokes — that name will 
do — changed gears. He went into high. For 
years Joe has been traveling in low gear. 
Whether it was fear of the increased gear 
ratio, or because he hadn*t learned how to 
shift, or a low gear pace was sufficient for him, we don't 
know. But Joe, from the time we can first remember 
him, has been traveling in low gear. 

WeVe always known that Joe's old bus had other 
gears; that it could speed up; that its manufacturer 
meant it to go through life at a faster clip than Joe 
drove it. 

But Joe didn't seem to know. So Joe pegged along 
in low. 

Yesterday Joe woke up. Just why or how I can't 
say. Perhaps it was because he saw so many of his 
friends slipping by him — slipping by with no better 
bus, no better motor than he had. Perhaps it was be- 
cause something quickened his desire to get to a given 
point sooner than he had ever arrived there before. 
Perhaps it was because he had learned somewhere, of 
some one, how to make that shift to a higher gear. 

Anyway, Joe is on his way now, going faster than he 
used to travel, doing it with greater ease and with less 
fuel consumption. And there's more confidence in his 
bearing, somehow, and he toots his horn oftener than 
he used to toot it. 

Yes, Joe is traveling along — making headway — 
getting somewhere at last. And, strange to relate, I'm 

66 



not the only one who has noticed that Joe has at last 
shifted gears — several have mentioned it to me — 
mentioned it in a voice of surprise, as though they saw 
for the first time that Joe's old bus had other gears, was 
capable of more speed. 

Yesterday John Doe — that name will serve — 
changed gears. He went into low. 

For years John has been traveling in high gear. He 
was a speed artist. Nothing ever passed him. He 
seldom saw much of the scenery as he whizzed by, but 
he was always the first to arrive. Folks used to com- 
ment on how fast a life he led. Perhaps it was envy — 
for he outdistanced them. Perhaps it was fear — for 
he took many chances they wouldn't take. Perhaps 
it was caution — for they knew his motor wasn't the 
motor it was when he got it, and it was in the shop many 
times for over-hauling. 

John always knew that he had other gears. He 
knew what they were for. He had used them — in 
times past — before he decided that speed was the 
thing, that speed got you there, that speed brought you 
in first, ahead of the bunch. But his other gears were 
long unused. He even started in high — on those 
seldom occasions when he stopped — and raced his 
engine to do it. 

Yesterday John woke up. Just why I can't say. 
Perhaps it was because some Master Mechanic had 
warned him that he'd better ease up on the old bus. 
Perhaps it was because the pace was beginning to tell 
on his nerves. Perhaps it was because he saw a steep 
grade before him that even he knew couldn't be taken 
on high. Perhaps it was because he had remembered, 

67 



suddenly, that he had other gears — gears put there to 
be used for definite work. 

Anyway, John is traveling along now at a slower 
pace. And he's seeing things he never saw before. 
His nerves don't jump as they used to jump. And he's 
taking the grades with ease, without strain, without 
fear that his motor will quit before he reaches the top. 

Somehow, folks are taking note of John, too. I am 
not the only one. Several have mentioned it to me — 
mentioned it in a voice of surprise, as though they saw 
for the first time that John's old bus had other gears, 
could be slowed down. 

Oh, Joe, it's good that you found yourself in time! 

Oh, John, it's good that you found time to find 
yourself! 



68 



THE BACK-DOOR-MAN 

NINE years ago I knew a man. He had 
everything that you and I and all reason- 
able folks could desire. He held a position 
of responsibility and trust with a big cor- 
poration. His home life was even, un- 
broken. He had brains, ability — and a boundless 
opportunity to make of life what he willed. 

But he willed to go wrong. Not criminally, perhaps 
— but morally. He willed to show a streak of chrome 
yellow instead of true blue. 

Never mind the circumstances of his change of life. 
They were circumstances that another man, of finer 
fibre, would have used as stepping stones to bridge 
events. But he, barkening back to his real self — 
the self he had successfully covered up and polished 
over for many years — did those things which business 
men find more difficult to forgive than criminal acts — 
for he betrayed trusts, and friendships, and bandied 
with faith as though it were an inconsequential thing. 

Part of the things he did — the acts he committed — 
were done while he was still in the employ of the con- 
cern that had given him his opportunity. After he was 
out, the yellow in his nature showed even more marked, 
and at the very time he might have retrieved his past 
he only made a greater mockery of his word and tossed 
away the remnant of faith in him that remained in the 
hearts of those who had known him in the better days. 

So he went his way — cast out from the back door 
of the house that had been his house; the house that 

69 



had honored him and the house that he had dis- 
honored. 

Yesterday I saw him, after a lapse of years. He was 
jaunty, debonair, apparently a man of the world, 
prosperous and content. 

But I knew those surface things — those appear- 
ances — for what they were — mere camouflage. In 
his face were lines that were not good to see — lines 
that charted what his life had been; that told the fruit- 
lessness of the years; that spoke more eloquently than 
words of the vain quest, the hopeless prospect; the 
never-reached goal. 

He was looking for a job. He has been looking for 
a job for a long, long time. This thing and that he has 
taken up, but they have only been the minor things, 
the crumbs from the table of business prosperity. 

He has never "landed" the **big thing," the **main 
chance," the real opportunity — despite the obvious 
talents that are his. 

And why? 

Because on that fateful day, years ago, he deliber- 
ately destroyed that moral fibre which is the greatest 
component in the makeup of a man, and prostituted 
those talents to other ends — ends that have brought 
him naught in his after-life except the ashes of disap- 
pointed hopes and the dregs of never-filled desires. 

Because — and herein is our lesson of the theme — 
our acts follow us like a nemesis where'er we go, and 
specter-like confront us on the threshold of the door 
of opportunity when we would enter. 

70 



Many times he has come upon the "real thing'* — 
but always there has been that fateful query: ''What 
were your past connections?" And because he cannot 
bridge with evasions those years he spent with that 
concern whose confidence he betrayed, he is forced to 
name them. 

Then goes forth the query to that house: ''What 
do you know of this man; his habits; his honesty; his 
morals; his responsibility?" 

And even though the years have been kind and old 
wounds have healed and there is no spirit of vindictive- 
ness — if ever such existed — in the former employers, 
business ethics demand an honest answer to that 
query. 

So the past keeps pace with this unhappy man 
through his every day of the present and casts its shad- 
ow across his path. 

How different all things might have been! 

Had his exodus been through the front door of that 
concern there would ever be a cheery voice to bid him 
enter when he knocked, and a good word go forth when 
others asked the old-home folks concerning him. 

But he's a back-door-man — an outcast and a 
derelict. 



71 



A PIPE 

WHAT is there about a pipe that makes 
for something savoring of enchantment? 
Is it the tobacco? I think not, for one 
can smoke tobacco in divers other 
shapes and forms and never secure 
from it the soothing balm that emanates from an old, 
well-seasoned pipe. 

Is it the pipe itself? Perhaps, in part. For pipes 
are not the same and what is one smoker's pleasure in 
them is another's poison. 

No, it must be a combination of the two and the 
expression of the smoker's individuality which they 
permit. 

When you smoke a cigar or a cigarette, it soon ashes 
to the end. The pleasure you find in it is evanescent. 

But not so with a pipe. When you have carefully 
packed it with your favorite tobacco, applied the match, 
taken those first few long puffs to insure that it is well 
lighted, you are only at the beginning of your enjoy- 
ment. When it is smoked out you can always refill it 
and continue the enchantment. 

Ah, now we are getting at it. A pipe is a companion 
— something that fits our mood, whether grave or gay, 
and with which we can freely share our sorrows or our 
happiness, with the realization that, like a genii, it is 
ever ready at our bidding. 

Whether you prefer an English briar, an American 
cob, a Dutch clay, a curved calabash or a carved 
meerschaum is a matter of your individual taste. 
Each has its advocate — each wins its friends. 

n 



Whether you prefer domestic or imported tobacco, 
plug cut, cube cut, shredded or even scrap, matters 
not. Each has its flavor — each suits some taste. 

But, regardless of the medium in pipe smoking, when 
you start the tasks of the day, with what zest you load 
the bowl of the old "dudeen** with your favorite 
"brand'* and plunge in. So, through the morning, you 
draw comfort and inspiration from the same source. 

At noon, after lunch, you may fall from grace and 
smoke a cigar or cigarette, but back on the job again, 
in the midst of the day's activities, there is nothing like 
that blackened, caked old pipe to smoothe perplexities 
and problems. 

Then, in the evening, after a good dinner, what 
better companionship can you desire than your faithful 
friend, glowing softly in the dusk of the evening as you 
take your earned rest in a comfortable chair? 

Puff, puff, puff — morning, noon-time and night. 
With whom are you closer than your favorite pipe? 
Creator and confidant of your dreams! What inspira- 
tion you draw through its slender bit! What soothing 
balm it brings to your troubled soul. 

I am constrained, even at the expense of the accu- 
sation of waxing sentimental, to quote these lines of 
James Gleason, a true pipe lover, written years ago: 

My pipe is peace to me 
On languid summer eves, 
When zephyrs steal with lazy flight, 
Nor scarcely hymn the brooding night, 
Nor wake the sleeping leaves: 
Some sullen vagary 

Encoils me in her pensive chain, 

73 



And knits me with the past again 
I puff my clay — the chain is broke, 
And broken, passes off in smoke 1 

My pipe is peace to me 
On wintry nights and chill. 

As speeds the flaky tempest past; 

When all without is soughing blast. 
And all within is still: 
In poet's company 

I tread my several ways along 
The verdant paths of vernal song 

I puff my clay — the song is done. 

And puffing breathe a benison. 

But — there — my pipe is out! 



74 




THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE 

OU gained the corner of the barn and looked 
behind. No one was in sight. The coast 
was clear and your bare feet fairly twinkled 
as you streaked it for the creek, a full mile 
from the house. 

There were tasks undone on that Saturday afternoon. 
But it was hot — insufferably hot — and a boy couldn't 
be expected to work all the time, could he? 

"No/' a little voice within you prompted — not 
when it was June, and it was hot and the old swimming 
hole called to all the boy that was within you. 

*'Yes,'' admonished another little voice — for these 
were your Saturday tasks — duties to be performed — 
and there would be plenty of time for play some other 
day. 

But the first little voice won out, as Fm afraid it had 
a way of winning out. And your truancy had begun. 

Through the **South Field,'' where the early corn was 
making a record in the heat, you made a fast sprint. 
Then, over the rail fence, a short distance on, and you 
were at the creek, safely concealed among the willows 
and elders. 

There, beneath the shade of a big oak tree, was the 
swimming hole — a famous one the boys of the neigh- 
borhood had made possible through the construction 
of a mud-and-sod dam — with cool depths that prom- 
ised exquisite relief to your parched body. 

Off with the big straw hat, the old hickory shirt, the 
wellworn overalls. A short run across the green bank, 

75 



a spring from the crude spring board — a splash! — 
and you disappeared for an instant in the cool waters. 

Wasn't it glorious! You swam around **dog fashion;'* 
you tried the ^^crawl" a city boy the year before had 
taught you; you floated. All the stunts and tricks you 
had learned from your associates were practiced time 
and again. You envied no man, with his tile lined 
tank or his ocean beach, for in your boy kingdom there 
was this old swimming hole and here was happiness 
beyond compare. 

Presently you heard shouts in the distance and as 
they came closer you saw that other boys of the neigh- 
borhood, too, had answered the call. In a twinkling 

— off with their clothes — a succession of splashes — 
and they were enjoying the sport with you. 

Then followed contests of skill — "follow the leader'* 

— "take a dare" — and all the old familiar games of 
the swimming hole. 

Time passed — the afternoon waned — and still 
you lingered. Perhaps it was to put off the reckoning 
to come — perhaps you simply forgot the passage of 
time, as boys do. Anyway the others were out, dried 
off, dressed and gone on their laughing way before you 
reluctantly circled the hole for the last time and 
climbed up the bank. 

Then — what a discovery! 

Shirt and overalls tied into knots — wet knots — 
such as only the ingenuity of mischievous boys could 
devise. 

And across the fields — faint, yet clear — you heard 
derisive shouts — "Chaw Beef! — Chaw Beef! — Chaw 
Beef!" 

76 



So you **chawed!" 

Reluctantly you turned your face homeward, after 
the difficulties of dressing had been solved, while that 
still small voice — silenced for so long — kept saying 
over and over again — ** You'll get it now! You'll 
get it now! You'll get it now!" 

But you didn't! 

You didn't know, but father had seen your "get- 
away;" had later on watched you through the fringe of 
the elders, and had felt the call of his youth just as you 
had felt the call of yours. 

Father, too, knew boys as only such fathers can know 
them. And father knew that little voice would never 
give you rest until you had made up in overflowing 
measure all the work you had slighted. 

So father said nothing — albeit there was a twinkle 
in his eye you did not see and if you had seen you 
would not have understood. 

The old swimming hole! 

Darn the complexities of life, anyway. 

After all, for the things we have lost are we compen- 
sated by the things we have gained? 

Sometimes I think not — not on hot days when an 
electric fan is but poor solace for vanished joys in that 
paradise of youth. 



n 



nn 



THE BROKEN HEART 

HE news came to me in a roundabout way. 
A friend told a friend; he told another, 
■ and so on it traveled until I heard it. 

^^^^ Not that it was of such vast importance 

— no! It was just one of those little 

things that one hears with some surprise, comments 

upon, mentions a few times and then erases from the 

mind. 

John Doe had resigned from the Blank Company, 

Certainly that, of itself, was neither starthng nor 
extraordinary. Resignations take place in the busi- 
ness world every day. But, somehow, I sensed a 
story behind this particular case, for I knew John, 
I knew his concern, and, more important still, I knew 
his Chief. 

A day or so ago I had lunch at the Club and John 
came over to my table. I noticed that he was not him- 
self. There was an air of abstraction about him — 
almost a melancholy — that was unnatural. 

**John, they tell me youVe resigned," I said. 

"Yes, it's true,*' he rephed. 

We sat for a few moments in silence. 

Then he began: 

"You probably wonder why," he said, "and because 
you knew the circumstances eight years ago when I 
went there, and because you know in part what has 
been accomplished since, and because you know the *01d 

78 



Man/ Ym going to tell you about it. Besides, Fve got 
to spill it to some one, and it might as well be you/' 

He paused, and then in a voice in which there was 
a pathetic tragedy, he exclaimed: 

'*T/iey broke my hearth' 

A business man and a broken heart. One conjures 
up a love affair or the **eternal triangle" when these are 
coupled. But wait — 

Then he unfolded the story — such a story as many 
a man has lived, as many a man is living; but always a 
tale that leaves the hearer with the prayer, "Please 
God, may this never happen to me.*' 

In brief, he narrated this — except that I have 
filled in with my own conclusions those gaps where 
modesty and loyalty caused omissions: 

In the days when he first went into the business it 
was comparatively small and he had thrown himself 
into it, body and heart and soul. He lived it, breathed 
it, dreamed it. Early and late he was on the job. It 
was both his work and his play. And with this de- 
votion to its interests he gave an intense loyalty that 
amounted to what in other men might have been their 
religion. 

So, as time went on, the business grew and prospered. 
It expanded into larger quarters. It added new lines. 
It became a highly profitable, going concern. 

John prospered with it, to some measure; but the one 
who prospered most was the **01d Man,'' his Chief, for 
it was practically a one-man concern, insofar as owner- 
ship was concerned. 

79 



And, like wine, prosperity and success went to the 
"Old Man's" head. He was a round plug in a square 
hole — built for small things and incapable of increas- 
ing his dimensions to take care of large ones — but 
because he owned the hole the matter of fit never 
entered his mind. 

He grew arrogant, domineering, intolerant, vain. 
And because such things are a part of the program of 
small-gauge men, he took all the credit for the concern's 
success to himself, and completely overlooked those who 
had labored and thought and planned and wrought for 
him — John notably among the others. 

So the trouble started, two years before it ended — 
for John — in a resignation. 

There was scarcely a day of those years that he did 
not **ride him" — harass, annoy, ridicule, belittle and 
slight him. And John took it all. 

**Why?" you query. 

"Why?" indeed! John himself scarcely knew — 
although in the meantime he had gone into debt for a 
home, and this obligation to his family, and the thought 
of starting all over again with some other concern, was 
probably the cautioning influence that made him hold 
on and hope for better things. 

After all, however, it wasn't that, I know it — and 
I think John knows it, too. 

He held on — endured those idiosyncrasies (to be 
charitable) of the "Old Man" — for one reason, one 
real reason, and one only — an unwavering loyalty: 
the kind of loyalty that a woman has sometimes for a 
man who is unworthy of her, or that a mother falls 
back upon to gloss over the glaring faults of her son. 

80 



That business was his heart's blood, for his heart's 
blood had gone into its upbuilding. It was everything 
to him — his child, his faith, his life. He was wiUing 
to endure much in it, for he had endured more, per- 
haps, /or it. 

But there came a day — just a few days before John 
talked to me. What happened on that day I do not 
know and he did not tell me — it seemed too painful a 
subject. Something must have snapped — the tension 
in such a situation could not last indefinitely. After 
all, the big events in our lives are only built upon a 
succession of minor ones — whether the culmination 
be a tragedy or an epoch. 

They had broken his heart! 

Better, by far, to put the blame where it lies — the 
"Old Man'' broke his heart. The "Old Man" who was 
drunken with success and who could not see, and never 
will see, the injustice — the cruelty — in the act of 
breaking a faithful heart. 

John will go to other fields. He will serve his new 
connection loyally and well, for that is the nature of the 
man. He will prosper and he will grow. Time will 
heal this wound. But he will never be the John he 
once was. He will never be able to put into another 
business the life blood and the heart blood that he put 
into the old — 

For the best part of him was murdered — in cold 
blood — and his murderer goes scot free, respected and 
honored among men. 

Is it fair? 

I leave it to you. 

81 



THE STOPPING OF THE CLOCK 

I AST night as I sat reading, alone, suddenly my 
mind wandered from the theme of the text; 
something bore down upon me that was 
^startling in its very indefiniteness. 

I paused, looked up and around, the 
sensation was curious. I was seemingly detached 
from my surroundings, yet nothing save the familiar 
scene of a comfortable living room met my gaze. 

What was it? What had happened to bring me 
from the depth I was buried in my book to a sudden, 
alert sense of something — something new, strange, 
almost uncanny! 

The clock had stopped — thaf s all\ 

And then, dimly, there came back to me some verses 
I had read somewhere, some time, that were at the 
moment most apropos: 

"The clock has stopped! Yet why have I so found 
An instant feehng like dismay? 
Why note its silence sooner than its sound, 
For it has ticked all day? 

"So many a life beside my own goes on, 
And such companionship unheeded keep, 
Companionship scarce recognized till gone 
And lost in sudden sleep." 

It came to me then, as such things sometimes do 
come to one, that in those verses, so curiously recalled 
to mind, there was an epitome of human fellowship. 

You and I have many a life that beside our own goes 
on, that '*such companionship unheeded keep'' — a 
companionship we fail to recognize until it is no more. 

82 



Familiar men, familiar ways, familiar acts — we 
accept them as a matter of course — as **the blessings 
Heaven daily grants" — little realizing what they 
mean to us until they are gone. 

It is well, now and then, to pause in the rush of 
life and give the value that is due the verities that are 
so much a part of all that is worth while, ere the 
"stopping of the clock" brings our negligence home to 
us. 

The companionships of life! Aren't they, after all, 
much of the sum and substance of that which makes 
life worth while? Aren't they golden argosies of 
friendship that bring home to us the wealth of the 
Indies — a treasure of human happiness. 

The companionships of life! So little heeded — so 
seldom thought of — so often accepted as a matter of 
course! 

We are so utterly dependent upon one another, and 
yet so sublimely independent. We unconsciously lean 
upon a hundred others as we travel through the days; 
yet we so consciously feel that we are sufficient unto 
ourselves. 

We are delightful egotists — viewed through the 
binoculars of humor. 

The ticking of a clock\ 

A simple, homely thing of itself — the repetition of a 
sound the ears grow so accustomed to that it must cease 
to make an impression. 

The companionships of life — the repetition of little 
friendly acts one grows so accustomed to that they must 
cease to make an impression! 

83 



It should not be so! 
It need not be so! 

Let us be cognizant of the human heart — the warm 
handclasp — the cheery voice — the welcoming smile 
— the lighting eye — all that companionship — that 
fellowship means — before it is too late. 

Before the clock has stopped y let us say! 



84 



A MAY FANCY 

WAS it the trill of a bird, the pleasant 
sizzle of a frying pan, a happy laugh 
from a near-by tent that aroused me 
to a consciousness of my surroundings ? 
I do not know. But a moment later 
I was fully awake, had flung aside the blankets and was 
out in the open, to await my turn at the basin and 
towel. 

Breakfast — how tantalizing and appetizing the 
odor — was dispatched in a jiffy by the hungry crew 
that attacked it — my companions, the guides and 
myself. 

Then off to the canoes, with tackle and kit, eager and 
ready for the sport of the day. 

The sun was lighting the east with rosy beams; there 
was the carol of the birds in the brush; the trees, the 
greenery, even the rocks seemed to glow with the light 
of the dawn. 

I found my place in the canoe, while Joe sent her 
skimming from shore with deft strokes of his paddle. 
The waters rippled and danced before us. The trees 
nodded a friendly farewell. The swooping gulls ad- 
monished us not to forget them. 

The adventures of the day had begun. 

I made my first cast near an old log across the lake 
from the camp. 

The reel sung pleasantly, the red fly flashed through 
the air, hit with a faint splash and then came skimming 
back over the green waters as I reeled it in. 

85 



Again! — and again! 

Then! — a shot of silver, a quick dart, a sudden 
strike, and the electric thrill that travels along a silken 
line when a bass has matched wits with a fisherman. 

That thrill! Who can describe it? It reaches the 
hands, the arms; it mounts to the brain; it quickens the 
beat of the pulse; it brings a sparkle to the eyes, a flush 
to the cheeks, a song to the heart. 

To keep the line taut. Ah, that was the trick. To 
outmatch his maneuvers; to outguess his defense; to 
outgeneral his fight. 

So the struggle was on — give and take. One 
moment to play him with line — the next reel it in. 
One moment watch him expectantly as he flung him- 
self in the air, shaking his head — the next follow his 
course, as he darted this way and that. 

Here was zest — here was sport! — here was life! 

Then, finally, as he tired with his struggles, I brought 
him in where Joe could make use of the landing net. 

The first of the day! A beauty! Four pounds if an 
ounce! 

So we ranged on. Sometimes with luck. Sometimes 
out of it. But always with the zip and the zest of the 
quest; the tang and the tinge of the great out-of-doors, 
and the spirit and sense of a rare day of days. 

Morning, noontide and twilight. The hours ran 
along till the short day was done. Then, turning, we 
sought the distant campfire that beckoned through the 
dusk. 

86 



Tired! — happy! — hungry! 

After supper we gathered around the blazing logs 
to live it all over again — to snatch a moment of Joy, 
ere she should be on the wing. While about us the in- 
finite hosts of the night gave serenade and the stars 
looked down with twinkling eyes upon *'tired business 
men'' who were healthfully tired with the tire of real 
play in the nursery of Nature. 



* 



I looked up. The scene faded — dissolved — was 
gone — the details of the office met my eyes. 

**Will you please sign this requisition?" asked a voice 
from somewhere — and I was back in the world of 
business again. 

Doggone the luck! 



87 



LOYALTY 

OF all the business sins of which a man may- 
be guilty, it seems to me that disloyalty 
comes very near the peak. 
You work for a man, or a firm, and you 
receive a certain wage or compensation for 
it. True, that wage or compensation does not give 
that man or firm absolute possession of your mind, 
soul and body; but it does give the fruits of these as 
they apply to the business in which you are engaged — 

Your mental effort — 

Your physical effort. 

And if to these you cannot add loyalty — unwaver- 
ing loyalty — then you have no right to accept what 
you are paid, whether much or little — and if you do 
accept it you are a cheater — cheating yourself, your 
fellow-workers and your employer. 

The synonyms of loyalty are fidelity, faithfulness, 
constancy and devotion. They're good words to tie 
to, to live up to, to mold your character upon. 

Not long ago, while traveling, I had as a seat com- 
panion in the Pullman a man who is employed by a con- 
cern that had done some work for me. I knew his 
superior — his "boss,** so to speak — and I thought I 
knew him. 

But I didn't. 

We chatted about current affairs for a time, and then 
the conversation veered around to business, as such 
discussions always do. 

88 



He started in on his concern and roasted it well- 
done. It was a "rotten" firm. He was underpaid. 
Others "grabbed off" all the credit for his accompHsh- 
ments. The "boss'* was down on him. He got all the 
dirty work that was to be done. They were slave- 
drivers — 

And so on and on for almost an hour. 

I let him run down; get it out of his system; relieve 
himself of the bile. 

Then I told him a few things — simply, plainly, 
succinctly. 

I had been a customer of his house. He knew that. 
He knew, too, that my business had been placed, in 
part, upon impressions — impressions of the character, 
the standing, the integrity, of the house and of its 
principals. 

And he sought to tear down the structure they had 
carefully built up; to blacken that character; to lower 
that standing; to bring a doubt of that integrity. 

I pointed out — and Fm sure that I did not mince 

words — that he was a business assassin; that he was 

contemptible, for he dishonored his house if it was not 

what he intimated and he dishonored himself if it was 

and he continued in its employ. 

And so I talked to him — lectured if you please — 
until I had exhausted the counter-emotions his criti- 
cisms had raised. 

He grew red and white by turns. But he took it — 
took it because at heart he was not rotten; because 
with him there was some of the thoughtlessness and 

89 



laxity of tongue that youth seems heir to. At heart 
he was sound; at heart he realized he was wrong, and 
from the heart out he finally spoke. 

He came through like a man. 

And I was glad that this thing came to pass. For all 
the while I knew that his *'boss'' knew his disloyalty, 
and the rope was being played out for the hanging. 

Today that man is a different man. His **I" has 
been changed to "we;'' his "my" to "our/' and he is 
honest with himself and with his firm. He has been 
promoted — given greater responsibilities — and his 
pay has been "raised" accordingly. 

Say a word against his house and he will fight "at 
the drop of a hat." 

His "boss" realizes the change — has commented 
upon it to me — but he does not know what wrought it. 

I think that I know. At least I like to feel that the 
incident I've referred to had something to do with it. 
After all, however, it was the man himself. One cannot 
make a rotten apple sound. 

Have I been preaching? 

I didn't intend to. 

You don't need it. 



90 



WRITERS OF LETTERS 

WE are all writers of letters. We dictate 
them, to Myrtle or Gladys or Ethel — 
occasionally we actually pen them — 
and when they're finished we sign our 
name, with a big or little flourish, and 
they go out into the city, into the state, into the coun- 
try, into the world. 

And when they go a part of us goes with them. A 
part of us that is us, is not us, or is what we would have 
others believe we are. 

If the day starts wrong — with a grouch generated 
the night before, or because some jolt has jarred us 
from the **even tenor" of our ways — then into our 
letters goes a bit of that disagreeable or savage mood. 

If the day starts right — with a smile and a quick 
step and a cheery "good morning" — with the spirit 
of the **glad to be alive" folks — then into our letters 
goes some of that warmth and cheer and happiness that 
is in our heart. 

We are all writers of letters. Letters that advertise 
us to those we know and those weVe never met. 
Letters that "unsell" us or keep us **sold" to those who 
receive them. Letters that leave our hands like sing- 
ing birds, or cawing crows, or hooting owls. Letters 
that fly away, beyond recall — beyond the vain regret 
that may later come when they've taken passage. 

So they go forth each day. And those who receive 
them react to the message we've sent. Those born of 
the day that starts wrong carry some of our troubled 

91 



spirit into others' lives and perhaps cast a shadow on 
their bright hour. Those of the day that starts right 
may bring some of our sunshine and cheer into the 
dark hours of those who read them. 

Oh writers of letters, how important your task! 
How infinitely more in the epistles you write than 
words, sentences, paragraphs! How boundless your 
opportunity to serve — the best that is in you and the 
best that is in those you address! 

Apply to yourself. 

There are letters you receive that re-make the day. 
Letters that visualize their writer to you — with out- 
stretched hand, with sunny smile, with cheery fellow- 
ship. Letters that make you feel you know their 
author as a friend — a boon companion for a while- 
away hour, when occasion may create the opportunity. 
Letters that take you from the **desk*s dry wood'* 
and project you across the miles to the side of a brother 
in the great fraternity of life. 

There are other letters, too. Letters that raise a 
frown, that cause a tightening of the lips, that bring 
a glow of resentment in your heart. Letters that are 
cold, cheerless, lifeless, gray. "Good fellows" may 
have written them — but how are you to know? 
Across the space, to you, there come those pulsations 
of another's life — pulsations that are tuned to bring 
the sharp retort, the unkind word, the uninspired 
reply. 

Writers of letters — take heed! As you sit at your 
desk on this morning, with the day's correspondence 
at hand, be yourself — the sunny self that makes you 

92 



business friends — and let that real self of you go out 
in those letters of yours. 

Then it shall come to pass — oh writers of letters! — 
that you will so contribute to them from the wealth of 
your nature that the wealth of their nature — and 
pocket — will come home to you. 

Do you doubt? 

Try it today. 



93 



TOO LATE! 



^ m AHE minister's voice had ceased — his mas- 



1 



terpiece of eulogy had been spoken — his 
tribute to the dead had been paid — paid 
to the living. 



Everywhere — in the room where he 
lay — in the house that had been his — in the resplen- 
dent box where they had placed all that remained of 
him — were flowers. Flowers that filled the air with 
their heavy perfume — flowers that were wondrously 
beautiful and rare — flowers that would have delighted 
him, for he loved them. But flowers whose beauty and 
fragrance were beyond his ken — flowers laid at the 
feet of the dead — laid therefor the living. 

Too late! 

Why is it so — why must it always be so — that we 
voice the praise and present the flowers when the ears 
hear not, and the eyes see not, and the senses know not? 

Is it just? 

If a man deserves our words of praise — if he deserves 
our tribute of flowers — how much keener the appre- 
ciation of them — how much more the happiness to be 
found in them — when presented to him in life instead 
of at death. 

We are prone to withhold the kindly word, the 
timely compliment, the note of praise. We know, we 
speak, we feel — to others. But to the one whose 
work, or deeds, or life inspires our commendation our 
voice is silent. 

94 



Merited praise is merited praise y and inspired flattery 
is inspired flattery y and sickening gush is sickening gush 
— but of these merited praise is real and human — 
coin that is as precious gold to the living and as worth- 
less counterfeit to the dead. 

Yet we should know and we should understand and 
we should appreciate these things, for we have in- 
stances in our own life that bear upon them — instances 
when we were the recipient of praise, of pleasant things, 
pleasantly said to ears that eagerly heard them. 
Instances when words of commendation spurred us to 
the achievement of greater things; brightened us 
through the days; made the heavy task seem light; 
fired us with eagerness to again deserve. 

You who manage men. You who pride yourselves 
upon your knowledge of human nature. You — you — 
should know that praise — merited^ judicious praise — 
is the most efficient tool in your managerial kit — a 
tool that if allowed to rust through lack of use reflects 
upon your ability as a master workman; or, if used too 
late, cannot repair the damage that its disuse has 
wrought. 

Once upon a time I heard of a man who, it seems to 
me, had something on us all. Each day his secretary 
brought to his attention any items that told of the 
success of other men. Perhaps the announcement that 
Jones had been promoted to this, or Smith had accom- 
plished that, or Brown had done some notable thing. 
If he knew Jones or Smith or Brown, a letter went forth 
with a word of praise for the promotion or the accom- 
plishment or the deed. Flowers to the living. 

And it seems to me that this was a happy thing to do, 
for it must have gladdened both the kindly heart that 

95 



thought of it and doubly gladdened the hungry heart 
that had learned through bitter experience never to 
expect it. 

Too late\ 

Let us not always be too late. Let us resolve today 
that we will speak the deserved word and tender the 
merited bouquet — to the living. 

For mayhap it shall come to pass that, in turn, there 
will come to us words that our ears will give welcome 
to and flowers that our senses will revel in — 

Not too late. 



96 



THE RACE OF MEN TO BE 

HE was magnificent in his virile manhood. 
As he towered above me, in his great rug- 
ged strength; clear-eyed, self-reliant and 
a very master of his destiny, I felt the 
insignificant thing I was. 

A moment before I had been reading a book of 
philosophy — the strange musings of some poor, dis- 
torted brain, it seemed to me — and had closed the 
book to rest my eyes. Then, suddenly, he took shape 
from the shadows of my study lamp and I looked into 
his clear, calm eyes. 

Yet I was not afraid. I think there was but a vast 
wonder in my face as I gazed at him. It was all so 
sudden — his presence — and so unexpected. 

Then the title of the book fell across my vision — 
and I understood. "The Race of Men to Be" it read. 
Surely this was the embodiment before me. 

"You know me now, I see,*' he said with a friendly 
smile. *T have known you for a very long time.'' 

*T know you — yes;" I said, "but the wonder of you 
only grows. You are of the race of men to be, but why 
have you honored me with your presence and what has 
made you like and yet unlike the type of men who are 
akin to me?" 

He smiled again. "You are as a child that asks a 
question and then answers it. I am here because I am 
unlike your type of man. 

"What I am," he continued, "is not of my own 
making. I am a product of evolution. I grew out of 

97 



unrest, out of mental and spiritual awakening. Through 
organization I was born. The fellowship of men was 
my father. My mother was a great human love. I am 
what you would be a century from now.'' 

The philosophy of the book had taught me that. 
The way was not so clear. I caught his eyes again. 
**More/' I said, for the problem he had touched upon 
interested me. 

"You cannot understand," he said gently, "for it is 
not yet given you to understand. You are but a drop 
in the great melting pot of the races. Out of this 
fusion of the best of men, and the worst, I have come. 
You cannot grasp the result, which is I, since the result 
to you is not yet. About you are men of varying 
intellect, yet all are men; some speak strange tongues; 
some have strange customs; some have the reach of 
high ideals; some are akin to animals. You are one 
of a species. Yet you, and others like you, are con- 
tributing to that common type, that higher type, that 
ideal type, which is the type of the race to be. 

"I have come to you that you might have the incen- 
tive of the end. Before you, from this hour, must be 
me. You must labor now as you have never labored 
before that I may be born. I must be your dream of 
life, the goal you labor for and never reach. Through 
you, and such as you, the coming race of men shall be as 
I. No worthier motive could you have, no greater 
purpose for the life that has been given you. To every 
higher plane you lift yourself, just that much nearer 
you come to me. I bid you put all of yourself in your 
life; I bid you broaden and expand; I bid you 
give that you may receive more to give; I bid you learn 

98 



that you may teach; I bid you suffer that you may con- 
sole; I bid you love that you may love yet more; I bid 
you go down that you may lift up, and, finally, I bid 
you make of me your one ideal, that through you I may 
finally come to be and do/' 

He was gone. But his impress remained. So to you 
I bring his message that you may help me in the task 
he has set my hand to do, and, in helping me, make for 
that greater universal brotherhood which is the race of 
men to be. 



99 



g^. 



— 12r : J' _"_„iy4™ 



